On Wings of Feather and Glue
by Gina King
Summary: She's not interested and he's not available, so no harm in being friends. Right? [RT, on hiatus]
1. Dionysian Rites

**Title: On Wings of Feather and Glue **– I have an obsession with mythology, particularly Greek. Figure it out.   
  
**Rating: PG **- It's so gonna end up a PG-13 or even an R, but for now, we'll leave things sweet and (mostly) innocent. 

**Pairing:** **R/T **- I'll say it for now, but I have no idea where this is headed.

**Author's Note: **This is the first try I've had at romance, but it was an idea I wanted to explore. As mentioned, direction is vague. Might be a little bit_ Boys & Girls_-esque is all I'm saying. Assume spoilers up to season 4, episode 1. I'm a week behind... Thanks to Ria for being my favourite beta ever, but you're really far too flattering. Not that I'm complaining...  
  
**Disclaimer:** I own a lot of shoes, and electronic gadgets, and books, but no rights to GG. Yet.  
  
**I. Dionysian Rites**

"Hey, baby, want to..." The drunken slur faded as Rory Gilmore moved past the outstretched arm that accompanied it. She sighed, upping her mental count to six. Six times she'd been propositioned, and they'd only been at the party half an hour. Either her new eyeliner was a natural aphrodisiac or the male to female ratio was off around here. Biting her lip, Rory glanced around hopefully, only to sigh again. Maybe it'd be worth a cut if she pitched the new eyeliner marketing scheme to Clinique.

Distracted, she nearly ran into the blonde head that had abruptly stopped in front of her. "Paris!" she exclaimed. "What have I told you about sudden stops?"

Her roommate spun around, cocking her head, and Rory braced herself for the sarcastic retort that was being primed. "Oh, I'm sorry, did I forget to bring my brake lights? Now where could I have left them? I knew my outfit was lacking something, but I just couldn't place it. After all, nothing matches the completion afforded by stylish reflectors strapped to my belt. Maybe I could shout in advance that I was stopping so you wouldn't have to actually look in front of you as you—"

"Paris," Jamie's voice cut in, warningly. Paris rolled her eyes, causing Rory to grin in amusement. It earned her a brief glare from her friend, belied by a quick wink. 

"Anyway, Rory, Jamie and I were going to mingle. Will you be okay on your own for a while?" A look of concern battled with hope on the shorter girl's face, and Rory laughed.

"Go on, kids, be young!" she admonished. "I'll be fine," she added, emphasizing the last word, only to mutter under her breath, "Even if you didn't let me bring a book."

"You're too anti-social as it is, Rory. It's unnatural."

"Says the girl who used to count the seconds before she could escape social obligations to study!" Rory replied, evoking a slight blush from Paris. "It's just a precaution, anyway. I like to be prepared," she huffed defensively.

"Rory. It's a party. A frat party. At a college a hundred miles from yours. At this rate, Ms. Foreign-correspondent-to-be, you'll be on assignment in Israel and have your nose in a book when Sharon and Arafat shake hands!"

"At this rate, your boyfriend is going to wander into some dark corner and be accosted by a girl whose lack of clothing is compensated for by makeup while you stand here playing Save Rory."

Paris glanced around in a panic. "Jamie? Jamie!" And as quick as that, Rory was alone, the commanding sound of her friend's voice moving away through the crowd.

She took advantage of her newfound independence to survey her surroundings. Large house, early 20th century design. She appeared to be in some sort of living room, couches flanking a fire place, a gits table off to the side. All, of course, crawling with intoxicated college students. The door to her right let into the kitchen, a room Rory was rarely comfortable in. To her left was the room they'd come from, which left the open hall in front of her and the other side of the house as the only option. With a shrug, and an induced feeling of adventure, she advanced.

A face lurched up in front of hers, swaying from side to side. "Listen," the girl said, trying to swipe her blonde hair out of her eyes with the same hand that held a cup, while the other had latched on to Rory's shoulder in an attempt to achieve balance. "Listen," she repeated. "If you see the boy with brown hair, _brown _hair, not black, tell him—I think it was brown. Maybe blonde," she continued, each word blending into the next, pausing only to take another swig from her drink. "Listen, whatever his hair looks like, tell him it meant nothing. I have a boyfriend, and we're happy, so it meant nothing. And, and tell him where I live, okay?" She squeezed Rory's arm and gave her what would have been a meaningful look had her eyes not been bloodshot and unfocussed.

"Sure," Rory answered, trying to detach the girl's hand from her shoulder.

"Good," the girl muttered. "Good." She attempted to walk away, stumbling instead into a couple making out on the arm of the couch. "Listen..."

"Okay, then," Rory spoke to herself. "This room's been exhausted." Quickly striding across the foyer, she made her way into similar room, only to nearly trip as a familiar face caught her eye.

She stared at him, an expression of mild disgust on her face. It was just too cliché, that the first time she should see him in almost two years, he would be engaging in typical frat-boy activities, a funnel attached to his mouth. He was surrounded by more of his ilk: spike-haired, t-shirt-and-jeans boys, chanting the magic four-letter word that turned an otherwise semi-degenerate house-party into the quintessential, must-see college experience. She bit her lip, thinking, and concluded that her last thought definitely wasn't sarcastic enough to imply the expression 'pathetic', as she'd intended. Shaking her head, Rory sighed and started to turn away.

"Not impressed?" a wry voice questioned.

Rory stopped, noticing the pretty redhead who had joined the onlookers at her side. With a shrug, she responded, "Not really. Now, if they were doing lines blindfolded, that would be entertainment."

"Oh, coke is on Fridays. Saturdays are strictly alcohol-poisoning-themed events," the girl deadpanned. "Wait around, you never know what these hooligans will pull next." Rory chuckled, but gaze was still pinned on the man of the hour. Her new companion remarked, "You seem rather interested, regardless."

"He hasn't grown up at all," she muttered in response, mostly to herself.

"You know him?"

Rory looked back at the girl. "Uh, yeah," she answered. Registering the girl's previous comment, she continued. "But not like that. I mean, I knew him. A long time ago. Well, sort of a long time. Two years. Yeah. About. Yeah, we went to high school together. But he's kind of a jerk," she stopped abruptly, her face darkening.

"Oh?"

Suddenly uncomfortable, Rory decided it was time to end this line of conversation. The girl was pretty, beautiful, actually, a slender figure encased in designer threads. Just his type, if a little sharper than usual, but she felt the need to warn her. "He's one of those typical rich boys. More time, money and charm on his hands than he knows how to use, and instead of being productive, he exploits it for everything he can get. He doesn't care about anyone but himself, and about anything but acquiring the next notch in his bedpost. In fact, he's likely moved on to his wardrobe by now." The last was tacked on, an afterthought.

After a brief silence, the redhead spoke. "Really? And here I thought I had him figured out." Another pause, and the girl picked up speed, her casual tone hardening. "He struck me more as the insecure, neglected type, the boy who's always trying to make up for it, seeking attention where he can get it. You know, constantly trying to assure himself that his reputation, the only thing that has ever afforded him any worth, is protected and maintained. Caught up in playing a part and showing people what they want to see because he's terrified that if he doesn't, he'll be discarded and stripped of his protective image, left huddling in a corner, attempting to hide the frightened, lonely kid that no one ever had time for." After another pause, and a careless shrug, she finished, "But that's just me."

Shaken, Rory could only stare at the girl, realizing that she looked older and more confident than his typical admirer. "Oh." A few seconds passed before she recovered enough to inquire, "You-you know him?"

"Yeah, I know him." The girl's face split into a large, fake smile as she answered. "I mean, obviously not as well as you do. After all, seeing him always in the same, stifling environment, surrounded by fickle worshippers and competitors who leap at any weakness and wedge needles of hate into any crevice, you're definitely in a better place to judge him." She dropped the smile, revealing a sad, tired expression. Taking a drag on the cigarette Rory hadn't seen in her hand, the girl nodded. "Yeah, I know him. He's my kid brother."

Rory realized her mouth was agape, and, closing it, she couldn't think of a single thing to say. A little gnome working somewhere on the fried circuit-board that was her mind flicked a switch, and she went into auto-pilot. "Hi, I'm Rory," she said, sticking her hand out.

His sister looked amused, and, shifting her cigarette to her left hand, shook hands. "Isolde. Call me Izzy, my parents hate it," she said, a familiar smirk crossing her features. At Rory's curious look, Isolde sighed. "Yeah, my mom had a thing for Arthurian legend. It's rather embarrassing, really, when they introduce us together," she rolled her eyes.

Encouraged, Rory tried to atone. "I'm sorry about, um, about Tristan. About what I said, I mean," she added hastily. "Not about him. I really don't know him well enough. I'm just—I'm sorry I assumed. It's that he..." She eyed Isolde carefully, trying to gauge her reaction to what she was about to impart. "He gave me a really hard time at school. He seemed to go out of his way to do so, despite occasions when we might have been friends." Shaking her head again, she concluded, "But you're right, I shouldn't judge him. It's not my place and it wasn't fair."

Isolde was surprised by her retraction. A few vaguely remembered puzzle pieces fell into place. "Enough analysis of my drunken brother's mind frame. I'm DD tonight, but want to grab a soda or something, Rory Gilmore?" A brilliant smile punctuated her invitation.

Equally stunned by her apology's reception, Rory acceded. "I'd love to," she said gratefully. Following the bright red hair as it wound through the press of off-balance bodies, she tried to stifle the buzz in her mind that Isolde's last comment had sparked. "Hey," she called, grabbing the redhead's arm. "How did you know my last name?"

Isolde's brow furrowed. "I don't know. I'm sure I heard it around at some point and my spectacular subconscious is on the ball tonight. Must be the fumes," she winked.

Wrinkling her nose, Rory finally noticed an unpleasant smell. "What is that, anyway?"

"You're kidding," Isolde laughed, surprised. Observing the confused blue eyes, she stated, "You're not. Wow. You must have kept a low profile at those Chilton parties, Rory. Half the kids in here are baked enough to give Mr. Christie a run for his money."

Realization dawned and formed Rory's mouth into a wordless O. Grinning at the younger girl's blush, Isolde elbowed her. "Let's get you that non-alcoholic drink, kid."

Slightly dazed, and feeling an intense longing for her room in Stars Hollow, Rory nodded. It had become an unexpectedly interesting night. She couldn't help wondering what else she'd been oblivious to all those years. On impulse, she added, "Take out the 'non' and I'm in."


	2. Persephone's Descent

**Title: On Wings of Feather and Glue **– I have an obsession with mythology, particularly Greek. Figure it out.   
  
**Rating: PG-13 **- I'm thinking that my propensity for cursing has upped it. 

**Pairing:** **R/T **- I'll say it for now, but I have no idea where this is headed.

**Author's Note: **Okay, as I'm writing this, I keep getting reviews in my inbox and I sound like a fool, giggling and giddy in my room. Guys, you have no idea how much help said reviews are, thank you a million times over. Frankly, I'm overwhelmed. I have this crazy-ass lab due tomorrow and I can't start working on it because I keep typing. I hope this chapter doesn't disappoint, as I'm scared it might. Feel free to let me know if it does. Ria, I still love you, only more.  
  
**Disclaimer:** I own as much as I did last time, plus some frozen cookie dough. Still no rights.   
  
**II. Persephone's Descent**

Rory's internal alarm went off the next morning in the guise of a murderous headache. Groaning, she squinted, trying to gain her bearings, but the room spun uneasily. Giving up, she shut her eyes and attempted to ignore the wave of sudden thirst that washed over her. A minute passed before her lifelong fear of dying by dehydration was recalled. _Okay, maybe not lifelong_, she thought, but at that moment, the intensity of her need for fluids seemed to warrant the exaggeration.

Swinging her legs off the side of the bed, she gave herself a good twenty seconds to recover before standing carefully. She tread gingerly, hoping to fool her body into thinking she wasn't moving at all as she made her way to the faucet she'd caught sight of earlier. Her head still housed an off-beat marching band, and halfway to her goal she was forced to pause and regroup as they broke out their swords. _Aren't those things supposed to be decorative?_ After a couple deep breaths, Rory resumed her shuffling steps. She didn't even consider finding a glass, instead cupping her hands and drinking her fill. In fact, she contemplated sticking her head directly in the sink to catch the water in her mouth, effectively cutting out the middleman, but feared getting stuck.

Sated, she stumbled back to her warm cocoon, vaguely registering that something shared her bed. The lump's gentle movements indicated another life form, blonde hair peeking out from the top of the covers. Rory spared a brief moment to wonder if Paris and Jamie had fought. By the time the thought was done, she'd tumbled onto the bed, burrowed under the covers and was falling asleep.

_Don't these people believe in blinds?_ was her next conscious thought as an errant ray of light tried to cleave her skull in two through her eyes. She slowly became aware of warm flesh beneath her cheek, and mentally reassessed her whereabouts to determine whether logic could validate her senses.

_Nope_.

Her eyes sprang open and were confronted by a nipple. A man's nipple, on a man's bare chest, and, what was that? Oh, her own treacherous hand, resting below the mystery man's well-defined pectoral. Suddenly abuzz, the rest of her senses rushed to report in, and Rory could feel herself pressed against the length of her bedfellow, thankfully through a layer of pyjamas. Her head rested on the bicep of an arm that wrapped around her back, its hand fitted in the groove of her waist. A masculine cologne assailed her nostrils, along with the stale scent of alcohol.

Before panicking, she noted that the chest was moving rhythmically, and decided that calm extraction was preferable to crazed severing. She gently pulled away, trying desperately to avoid any sudden movements. The hand at her waist tightened, though, pulling her flush against him, as he mumbled something that sounded like, "Not yet, baby." She glanced up at his face, scared that she'd awakened him.

"What the hell?" she shouted, half-amazed that she'd leaped out of the bed and was standing in a single, if not fluid, movement. She could feel her eyes trying to pop out of their sockets as she repeated herself. "What the hell?"

She almost missed the look of shock displayed in his own expression as he came fully awake, and was busy seeking her clothes when he mouthed her name in confusion. When she turned around, it was to find a lazy smirk gracing his features. "So, Mary, was it good for you?" Tristan drawled.

"Why, you—you..." she hissed. Giving up on a suitable epithet, she threw her shoe at him. He dodged it, laughing.

"A simple yes would suffice, my dear."

"I can't—I don't—This is not happening." Rory started pacing. "No. It's a dream, a nightmare, a horrible nightmare and if I pinch myself hard enough—ow!—I'll wake up and it will all be gone and I'll be in my dorm room, in my own bed and why are you still here?" She rounded on him, accusingly. 

He shot her an innocent look. "Thought you might want seconds?"

"You're sick. I can't believe you'd do this. You set this up, didn't you? Izzy, the party, the vodka? I can't believe you!"

Tristan glared at her, his humour flown. "Still pretty high on yourself, huh, Gilmore?" He got out of the bed on his side, and she couldn't help but gape a little. His track pants hung low on his hips, and she mentally noted that military school must have required a lot of physical activity. "I was teasing you. Don't worry, nothing happened. Your innocence is in the same state it was twenty-four hours ago."

Taken aback, she couldn't let it drop. "Are you sure? How do I know you're not just saying that?" As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she regretted them and the naiveté they evidenced.

"Jesus, Rory," he snapped, pulling on a t-shirt. "Trust me, I'd remember." He winced at the tone of his voice, obviously suffering from his indulgences the previous night. "I have a girlfriend, for fuck's sake."

She bit back the retort that sprang to mind, but he noticed.

"Besides, wouldn't you in tears about now?" he couldn't resist taunting.

"Screw you."

"There's still time."

"Go to hell!"

"Watch out, you might actually hurt my feelings," he said sarcastically. Sauntering over to the kitchen—they had been on a pull-out bed in the living room, Rory finally realized—Tristan took out two bottles of water. He tossed one to her, which she proceeded to fumble and drop. She pinned a threatening look on him, daring him to say anything, and he merely smiled and drank.

Snatching the bottle from the ground, Rory retrieved her shoe from where it had gone flying behind the bed. "Where's the bathroom?" she asked, evenly.

His eyes ran up and down her frame, making her feel naked despite the large t-shirt that covered her to her knees. "Why bother? You didn't use it last night," he said, eyebrows wiggling suggestively.

"First door on your left, Rory," Isolde said as she entered from that direction. Her damp hair was up in a ponytail and she looked refreshed, wearing jeans and a green sweater. "Don't mind Tris, he doesn't deal well with hangovers, do you now, hon?" She smiled at her brother pleasantly before reaching up to give him a smack upside the head.

"Ow, fuck, Izzy," he muttered, reaching back to soothe the offended region.

"Yup, the charm is definitely suffering this morning."

"Thanks, Izzy," Rory said, taking in the glare Tristan had set on his sister. "I'll be back in a second."

"Sure thing, kiddo. There's an extra towel in there if you want to shower. Let's grab some breakfast later, shall we?"

* * * 

As soon as the door closed behind Rory, Tristan opened his mouth to blast Isolde.

"What the hell was that?" He closed his mouth. Wasn't that his line? Damn her, she always caught him off guard.

"I don't know," he answered honestly.

She merely eyed him, waiting.

"Oh, Iz, shit. Don't start now. I really have no idea. It's like," he paused for a second, trying to collect his thoughts. "It's like I turn into an immature sixth-grader when she's around."

"That's some perverted 11-year-old," she said under her breath, earning another glare.

"May I?" She simply beamed at him. He'd missed her teasing, though he would never admit it. "Thank you. As I was saying," he faltered. "I barely had a chance to recover this morning. Hell, I don't see her for two years, and the first thing I hear is her swearing. I couldn't help it. I slipped right back into the antics I pulled on her in high school." He grinned. "I can't deny it was fun. She's such a prude." 

Isolde rolled her eyes. "C'mon, help me make this bed." They started pulling off covers and folding them. "So, nothing happened, right?"

"Nothing happened," he repeated.

"And you're still good with Vidya, right?"

"Yes, Lady Isabella."

"That's Queen Isabella to you, kid. Princeton should really offer better first-year history courses," she grumbled. "Besides, I'm only making sure everything's copasetic." A few minutes went by in silence before she continued, casually. "And do you still have feelings for Rory?"

"Do you ever forget anything?"

"My last name, sometimes."

"Don't we all. No, I don't have feelings for her anymore," he said. "You should have heard her, though," he continued, slightly incredulous, "Accusing me of seducing her and stuff." At his sister's look, Tristan growled, "I haven't done that shit in years and you know it!"

"Yes, yes, I know. No need for seduction at military school, where the soap is slippery and the guys are easy," Isolde nodded sagely.

His jaw dropped. "Oh, you're begging for it!" he threatened, before pelting her with a pillow. She shrieked, but recovered quickly, throwing it back his way before diving across the bed with fresh ammunition. His throbbing head was not pleased with this new activity, but he could care less as he vowed to hear his sister beg for mercy.

* * *

"So, what will it be, girls?" Rory glanced up at the question, bemused. Standing at their table was the classic diner waitress, down to the short skirt, big hair, gum-chewing and hip-jutting pose. She wondered if they were trained specially to lend authenticity to the restaurant. She also wondered what Luke would look like in that get-up. Her choked laughter had both the waitress—going by Sally if the name tag was to be believed—and Isolde glancing at her askance. Smiling sweetly, Rory diverted them, inwardly storing the image until she could speak with her mother.

"Bacon and eggs, toast with extra butter, and hash browns. Oh, and a side of sausages. Do you guys have pancakes individually? Great, I'll take two. And orange juice." Isolde snapped her menu shut, looking satisfied.

It was Rory's turn to stare. "I'll, uh, I'll have the same," she stammered. The waitress nodded, snapped her gum and started to walk away. "Wait!" Rory shouted. The waitress swiveled on her heel, and Rory coughed, embarrassed at her outburst. "Could you please make mine coffee? Black? Thank you."

"Are you alright?" Isolde asked, eyeing her warily.

"Oh yes, fine, I'm fine, why wouldn't I be fine?" The wariness only increased, so she decided to elaborate. "It's just that her outfit, Sally's, the waitress? Well it's so typical and Luke, back home, he owns the diner we always eat at, and I was thinking about what he would look like and—never mind," she mumbled. Isolde started laughing. "What?" Rory said, annoyed.

"I'm trying to picture you at Chilton," her companion answered, still chuckling. "For the life of me, I can't."

"It wasn't pretty, I assure you."

"Actually, I think it had to be, purely by definition. Wish I could have witnessed it."

"So you attended Hartford's most prestigious preparatory school, as well?" Rory inquired comically, recalling their conversation from the past night. In her alcohol-induced verbosity, she had more or less caught Isolde up on all the major points of her life.

Isolde nodded, fiddling with her napkin. "Yup. Generations of DuGreys, _et cetera_. It was alright. I just did my shit and got the hell out as soon as I could. Much like you, minus school council but including valedictorian."

"No way," Rory mused, imagining a straight-laced DuGrey. "Why didn't I see you around while I was there?"

"I graduated the year before you arrived. Instead of heading straight for Princeton, as was expected, I took off for a year, traveling. Unlike Tristan, I saved what I could during high school and blew it all in one amazing year," she said, her tone growing wistful. 

Their waitress returned with a tray and commenced the elaborate process of depositing their breakfast. When the dust settled, Isolde smiled at her like they were old friends. "Thanks, Sally!" Sally, veteran that she was, didn't blink, leaving the two girls giggling over their feast.

* * *

Rory waited until they were walking home to broach the Tristan Topic. Between her quick call to check in with Paris that morning and Isolde's comments today, she gleaned part of what had transpired last night. Paris and Jamie had been ready to leave too early for "drunken Rory"—Paris's words, unnecessarily malicious by Rory's standards—so Isolde had offered to have her over. How she ended up in bed with Tristan had yet to be clarified. He had passed her as she left the bathroom, leaning in for an obnoxious sniff and nod of approval before locking himself in. The shower had still been running when she and Isolde had left.

"So, Izzy," she began. A minute passed, and she noticed Isolde's expectant look. "Right. Uh, about last night. Do you, um, did you—how did..." she trailed off. "Thanks for everything," she finished lamely. _Now _ that's_ eloquence. CNN, here I come!_

"No problem." They walked in silence for a few more minutes. "Tristan was plastered last night," Isolde offered. "I didn't trust the frat kids to take care of him, so I dragged him to my apartment with us. As soon as I pulled out the hide-away bed, you guys both crashed on it and passed out." She shrugged. "I didn't see any harm in it, so I left you. I'm sorry if it caused any awkwardness." 

"Oh, no, no, not at all. No," Rory shook her head vehemently. She paused. "Well, maybe a bit, but it wasn't your fault. I guess I flew off the handle."

"He can have that effect," Isolde said softly. They had nearly arrived at Jamie's when she spoke again. "He liked you, you know."

For the second time in two days, Tristan nearly caused Rory to trip. Trying to cover up her stumble, she said, "Excuse me?" 

"At Chilton. He actually liked you. He's going to kill me for saying this, but you're the only girl he ever told to me about." Isolde smiled wryly. "Which I think he's starting to regret."

Rory digested the information slowly, running her mind over events from years ago, events she hadn't given thought to in that long. On Jamie's stoop, she finally stopped. "I never knew that. I thought I was a game to him, a challenge," she said quietly.

"I'm sure you were, initially. Everything was, back then. But, somewhere along the line, you became more. Confide-in-sister material," she winked, trying to lighten the mood.

The front door swung open with a bang and a hurricane in Abercrombie & Fitch emerged. "Where have you been? Do you know what time it is? It's 2 pm. It's Sunday and it's 2 pm. Do you know how long it takes to get home? Did your watch break? Or have you embraced sundials along with alcohol, hoping to become the classic college hippie, throwing away any hopes at success just to stick it to the man? I hate to intrude on your cozy, cross-college bonding session, but some of us still want a career when we graduate." Paris turned to Isolde and gave her a quick nod. "Izzy."

"Paris, hi, how have you been?" Her warm response was ignored.

"You had better be ready to go in five minutes, Gilmore."

Rory nodded seriously. "You can count on me, Gellar. By the way, did you know your shirt is inside-out?"

Paris glanced down and flushed red. "Five minutes," she bit off, stalking back inside. Rory and Isolde collapsed on the stoop, laughing.

Wiping a tear from her eye, the latter remarked, "It must have been an... intense three years between you two, huh?"

Rory could only nod, still convulsing.

"Hey, don't be a stranger, okay? You have a place to stay next time you're around," Isolde said. Rory nodded again, patting the pocket with her new friend's contact info scribbled on a napkin. "Man, has Paris met her match. One of these days you'll have to tell me how you guys ended up friends."

"It was no thanks to your brother," Rory quipped, and they both fell silent. "I should get my stuff. Paris really would leave without me."

"Yeah, I don't doubt it." The girls stood, and embraced.

"Do you want his number? Email address?" Isolde asked hesitantly. "You guys should keep in touch."

Rory glanced away, down the street. A gentle arc was formed over it, tall trees with leaves dappled in greens, yellows and browns. Brownstone houses fronted on grassy lawns, and students lounged in the late autumn sun. A frustrated shriek drew her gaze to two children, supposedly playing. The boy had the girl's hair in his grip and was tugging at it while the girl stamped her foot, emitting the occasional scream. He stuck his tongue out at her, apparently the last straw because she took a swipe at him and he dashed off. She chased him around to the back of their house, out of sight. 

Turning back, Rory responded with a smile, "Sure."


	3. Eris Fading

**Title: On Wings of Feather and Glue **– I have an obsession with mythology, particularly Greek. Figure it out.   
  
**Rating: PG **- This chapter takes it down a notch. I think. 

**Pairing:** **R/T **- I'll say it for now, but I have no idea where this is headed.

**Author's Note: **Um, this isn't a chapter so much as an interlude. I was trying to sleep and I started thinking about where I wanted the story to go and the conversation began in my head so I decided to type it. I'll start skipping ahead in longer chunks from here on. Maybe. Anyway, hope you enjoy, and seriously, if you have criticisms, please voice them. Thanks yet again for the reviews, they really make my day. My silly grins are getting embarrassing. **Elizabeth**: I have no idea what PJ's Pancake House is... coincidence? **Rach**: I hope this abnormal motivation keeps up, too. Midterms are approaching, though... ** Ria**, my gratitude will be in the mail by Tuesday, I swear. Happy Thanksgiving to my fellow Canadians!  
  
**Disclaimer:** I ate part of the cookie dough and I have a new job, but I remain a pale shadow of those who own _Gilmore Girls_.   
  
**i. Eris Fading**

fade in

"Hello?"

"Hi, may I please speak with Tristan?"

"Speaking."

"Hi. It's Rory."

"Rory."

"The one and only. Well, maybe not in the world, but possibly the only one you know. Am I the only Rory you know?"

"Are you the—? Yes. Yes, you are."

"Then my statement stands."

"Right."

"So, ah, how are things?"

"Things are... good. And you?"

"Good. My things are also good. They've been consulting a life coach, you see, and it's made them much more receptive to existence as a whole, which is why they're so very—"

"Rory."

"Sorry. It's Terrence's fault."

"Terrence?"

"Paris's life coach."

"Like on Oprah?"

"Exactly. You watch Oprah?"

"No! I just—so, tell me about Terrence?"

"Smooth. Terrence, yeah, he's always around. Kind of creepy to tell you the truth. It's almost a relief when he's gone and Paris actually bites someone's head off."

"I never imagined the day I'd hear you say that."

"I know; it's amazing what two years does. Who could have ever foreseen the infamous Paris Gellar stalking me, sweet, unassuming Rory Gilmore, to the extent that she'd pull strings to have us room together?"

"Have you ever seen _ Single White Female_?"

"Don't say it."

"Just keep an eye on your student ID."

"Didn't I warn you? And yet you test me."

"So, I heard you guys were at Yale together?"

"I had no idea military school kept those finely honed Hartford society social skills sharp, too. Did you learn how to monogram handkerchiefs along with perfecting the segue way?"

"No, that was sophomore year. The upper years focussed entirely on poise and etiquette. And I can't believe you just said 'handkerchief'."

"Would you prefer hankie?"

"God, no. In fact, I'm not sure why the reference was even necessary."

"Everything I say is necessary, I'll have you know. Not a frivolous word in the lot."

"Uh-huh."

A pause.

"Well, some of them are frivolous. I've been known to rhyme off entire sentences that were completely pointless. Unfounded, even."

"You don't say."

"I'm sorry, Tristan."

"About what?"

"Yelling at you. Accusing you of seducing me. Throwing my shoe at you. Plotting ways to replace your gel with superglue."

"Excuse me?"

"I haven't considered the superglue one in a long time, at least three years. And even then it was only a fleeting thought, I swear."

"I use hair wax."

"Oh."

"It's okay, you know."

"What, hair wax? I've never tried it myself but I hear it yields a gentler hold and is softer to the touch."

"I meant your apology. Apologies. It's alright."

"No, it's not. You did nothing to deserve my vicious thoughts—"

"—Vicious?—"

"—mean, then, or the early morning negative energy I was tossing your way and I'm sorry that I burdened you with them."

"Terrence really is rubbing off, huh? And it was late morning by that time."

"No correcting and/or mocking the apology and/or apologist."

"Definitely late morning, because I think your early morning thoughts were much more pleasant than that. They definitely don't need an apology."

"Tristan!"

"I'm sorry! Relax! I couldn't resist. It was right there and—"

"Just this once I'll let you get away with it, and only because you've yet to forgive me."

"You're forgiven, if you need to hear it so badly."

"Thank you."

"We're about even, then."

"Even?"

"Mary? PJ Harvey? Various episodes with Paris? I'm crushed, did my tormenting have no permanent effect at all?"

"I'm sorry, we went to high school together? What did you say your name was?"

"Jimmy Smith."

"Oh, right. Okay, we're even."

"Good."

"Good."

"So, what have you been up to?"

"In the past two years or the past two weeks?"

"The past two weeks. We'll save the other for a non-long distance conversation."

"I was wondering how you got into Princeton. You're a sharp one. Well, I'm trying to decide what to be for Halloween."

"It's only two days away, isn't this a bit late to start?"

"You know me; I leave everything to the last minute."

"I always said that about you."

"You did?"

"I did. I always said, 'you know that Rory Gilmore? She leaves everything to the last minute.'"

"It was you who started the rumours! They nearly kicked me off the Franklin, you know."

"They didn't."

"Oh, but they did. I had to get my mom to seduce Headmaster Char—ok, let's drop this one. So what do you think: Emily Dickinson or Bjork? This is a very important decision. It will determine my social status around here over the next four years."

"Rory, no matter what you do, the truth will come out. I know you really want to go Madonna, circa _Like a Virgin_. Just embrace your trampy side and be free!"

"That is strike two, mister. Watch yourself."

"What? First of all, strike one was stricken from the record by your own adjudication. Secondly, I would say the same thing to Izzy. There's no innuendo, I promise."

"Hm. I'll need testimony from your sister to substantiate your claim. In the meantime, if I were you I'd seriously consider alternative methods of couriering coffee straight to my dorm room, DuGrey."

"Keep dreaming."

A pause.

"You and Izzy kept in touch?"

"Yup."

"I see."

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Is there a problem here, Tristan? A conflict of interests?"

"No, not at all. I'm just—what do you guys talk about?"

"Mandolins. 17th century poets. Plans to build a time machine so we can go back and prevent Chilton's creation. Debt relief for developing nations. Johnny Depp. Why are you so curious?"

"Me, curious? It's nothing. I'm making conversation. Military school taught me well, remember?"

"Don't worry, Tristan, we don't discuss you. Your name has come up maybe twice in conversation, once when we were on the topic of mythology." 

"I wasn't worried. Why should I care?"

Silence.

"Stop laughing. Rory, stop. I'm going to hang up..."

"No, wait! Just..."

"I retract my previous correction. Definitely vicious."

"Sorry, I..."

"You're three inches from being cut off."

"Wait! Let me give you my number so at least you can bear the charges next time."

"Next time? Uh, sure. Shoot."

"I mean, if you want to. It's up to you. I don't want to force anything on you so feel free to just tell me if this is a one-time thing and you'd rather return to the existence you had when the only Rory you knew was some girl in high school you never got along with."

"Rory. My pen is poised. Just give me your damn number."

"Hey, if you're going to get all touchy about it..."

"Rory."

"Ok, it's area code 203..."

fade out

fade in

"Rory!"

"Mom!"

"I was getting worried, kid. You haven't called in two days, you know."

"I know, I'm sorry. It's been crazy. Midterms and papers and—do you know I haven't even started planning my Halloween costume yet?"

"What? What kind of hack show are they running over there? And they call themselves an Ivy League school. Keeping a girl from indulging freely in the one night a year she can legally traipse about like a floozy—it is legal isn't it?—"

"—I think it's always legal—"

"—and celebrate a pagan holiday in all its glory, mere weeks before honouring our Puritan forebears. For shame."

"You should write a letter."

"I think I will."

"Don't forget to include the word floozy. It's potent."

"You think? I was worried it would come off too Dorothy Parker."

"No, no, it's very Fitzgerald."

"So, pumpkin—"

"—Pumpkin?—"

"—I'm feeling festive, go with it. As I was going to say, what have you been up to? I imagined a variety of scenarios, most involving either a flock of wild geese or a cute sophomore who plays the bass guitar, sometimes both. There was this one with the bikers, though, that tempted me to call the authorities before I remembered that the closest a two-hundred-and-fifty pound, leather-clad and tattooed man comes to New Haven is when Yo-Yo Ma is performing in Hartford."

"Mom. That makes absolutely no sense."

"Exactly. Now, answer my question. And you never did tell me how the trip to Princeton was, so include that in your dissertation starting in five, four..."

Silence.

"You do realize that I can't see you mouth the words 'three, two, one' over the phone, right?"

"But you know I'm doing it so it's moot."

"I see. And I didn't tell you my story because you hung up on me!"

"I did no such thing!"

"Funny how that dial tone cuts in out of nowhere these days. The nerve of some telephone companies."

"Luke wasn't letting me use my phone in the diner. I had to!"

"And the exit was blocked by a flock of wild geese?"

"Surprisingly, no. They're all in New Haven this time of year."

"Were your legs broken? A sprained ankle? Bum knee? Old sword wound acting up because of the rain?"

"No..."

"So, stepping outside to talk to your only child, your favourite daughter, your very _raison d'être_, was too much effort?"

"I—What's that, Michel? You need the phone? Sorry, babe, I have to go now."

"Mom. You're on your cell phone and Michel's in France."

"He's... back! For the afternoon. To cover. Yup, good old dependable Michel. He'd do anything for the Inn. And the landlines aren't working, some problem with pesky dial tones."

"Uh-huh."

"I think the phone virus is spreading, mine's about to go! Unless... What's that? You were going to going to change the subject?"

"I'm buying you a cat."

"Rory! Take that back."

"How are Grandma and Grandpa?"

"Oh, you missed it! Mom calls, and..."

fade out


	4. Digital Hermes

**Title: On Wings of Feather and Glue **– I have an obsession with mythology, particularly Greek. Figure it out.

**Rating: PG **- This chapter takes it down a notch. I think.

**Pairing:** **R/T **- I'll say it for now, but I have no idea where this is headed.

**Author's Note: **Ok... So, sometime last year, life got in the way of writing. Or, possibly, the season kinda struggled so there wasn't much temptation to write. Either way, I never finished this story. I did, however, have this chapter available, which I never ended up posting. As such, I present to you, un-beta-ed and mostly incomplete, an additional chapter to a story I quite possibly may never finish. I'll be honest: I'm completely sold on Logan, so it's hard to write Tristan when you have a much less jerky version of him to work with. That said, I hope it's enjoyable, and there may be some R/L fics in the future...

**Original Author's note (at time of writing)**: A few things. First off, I'm sorry to anyone who cares that this hasn't been updated in a while. My academic and financial lives have put a permanent dent in my free time, in addition to a visit from my friendly neighbourhood writer's block. I'm assuming that science students have arts requirements, which is why Paris and Rory share a class. Also, the previous chapter was not quite meant as a script style; rather, I envisioned a darkened stage, with a faint pair of spotlights fixed on two characters, the audience merely eavesdropping on their conversation. Sorry if it was less enjoyable!

**Disclaimer:** Don't own _Gilmore Girls _or any characters therein. I do own the ones you don't recognize, but not as in _own them_ own them because that's plain wrong.

**III. Digital Hermes**

The angle was hell on her neck, but Rory didn't care. Legs crossed on the hard, wooden chair, her upper half lay over the table, arms sprawled across her notes. The soft cotton of her sweater acted as a pillow to her weary head, partially muffling the sound of Paris's voice. Nothing short of an old fashioned air raid alarm could drown that voice out completely, of course.

"And then we'll move on to Faulkner, sound good? Good. Okay, turn to page 76."

"Mmmffffttt." Rory couldn't suppress her groan.

"What is it, Rory?" She could feel her roommate's sharp gaze boring through the back of her head. "Speak up, we have readings to cover."

Sitting up with a sigh, she let Paris see her annoyance. "Can we please take a break? It's been four hours!" Her hair was tied back lazily, short strands escaping at random, and there were dark smudges of make-up around her eyes from frequent rubbing. She glanced at the darkened campus outside their window, and then around the near-deserted library pointedly.

"You just had a break." The reply was curt as Paris continued to leaf through her notes, barely acknowledging the request.

"No, no, I didn't. I went to the bathroom. An hour ago. For four minutes. That, Paris, that is not a break unless you work in a Gap sweatshop in Thailand in which case it's not even a break, it's nap time. Last time I checked, Yale was not an active member of the textile industry."

Paris shrugged casually in that way that Rory knew was anything but. "Suit yourself. I thought you had aspirations beyond becoming a CNN mail clerk but I guess I was mistaken. Go on, take your little break, live the high life, party hard and all that, if that's what's important to you. Just don't expect a shoulder to cry on for you and your sub-4-point-o GPA."

Standing, Rory grabbed her wallet and phone with a grumbled, "Sometimes I really miss Terrence."

"What? What was that?" Paris's voice was sharp. "I told you that name is not to be mentioned ever again!"

"Whatever," she muttered, feeling slightly guilty.

"Hey, guys, what's up?" A cheerful voice broke the tension.

"Jay!" Rory grinned, giving her friend a quick hug. "What are you doing here?"

Removing his hat, he ran a hand through his short dreads and fixed sparkling brown eyes on her. "Rehearsing for my circus audition. Wanna see?" He winked and added, "What are you kids up to? Nice sweater marks, Ror," he indicated her cheek.

She made a face at him. "The foreman over there has put a ban on breaks. We were negotiating a new contract." Her darkening mood had been completely dispelled by Jay's arrival. He seemed to have the ability to lighten her up in the most trying times, a talent for which she became grateful as her workload began to increase.

"Sorry for the inconvenience, Norma," Paris snarled.

"Paris, Paris, Paris," Jay murmured, shaking his head. "I don't know why you insist on pretending like these courses actually require studying."

Head bowed over her binder, Paris ignored his comment. Rory couldn't suppress a grin as he continued to needle her.

"I mean, some of those math and science courses you take, sure, they might have a bit of work, and I use the term liberally, but Lit?" He scoffed. "Could you get any more elementary?" Rory nearly choked, used to this line of teasing.

Paris's head snapped up. "Look, Jay, if your program is so very challenging, why do you have time to come here and harass us? Shouldn't you be designing a bridge or something?"

"Ah, my poor, naive Paris. Someone of your vaunted intellect should be aware that civil engineers design bridges, not electrical. And I have time because I've been blessed with something beyond charm, brains and good looks." He leaned forward and whispered softly. "Perspective."

Standing, Paris slammed her notes shut. "I'm going to get a drink. You better be back here in twenty minutes." She stalked off, muttering, "Just don't blame me when you fail your midterms."

Rory finally burst out laughing. "Thanks, Jay, I owe you one."

Sketching a mock bow, he responded. "I live to serve, kid. And enjoy serving if it involves fucking with Paris."

"Where have you been all my life?" she drawled.

"I should get going," he said, covering a yawn. "My work here is done."

"Later, Spock."

"Later, Janeway." Her blank look gave him pause. "Captain Janeway? Of the Voyager? Star Trek of the nineties?"

"You know, Jay," Rory mused, tapping her index finger on her lip. "There's a reason you ended up in Engineering despite your protestations otherwise."

He gasped in mock horror. "How dare you!"

"Bye," she smiled sweetly.

"Bye," he replied, ruffling her hair. "Don't let Paris get to you."

"I'll try." She watched him leave, and then stretched, sighing. Once in a while, she received a vibe from him that she thought might indicate interest beyond mere friendship, but she never allowed herself to respond. She knew she wasn't ready yet, and was hesitant to risk their friendship. He was sweet, though, and as bright, charming and attractive as he'd claimed. Sometimes, he reminded her of Dean, sometimes—she hesitated—of Jess. There was a cocky charm there that was familiar, as well, but she couldn't place it.

Sauntering over to the computers, she logged on and checked her email. Scrolling through the usual, non-descript university notices, a subject line stood out. "Sidekicks don't kiss!" Clicking to open the message, her face lit up at Tristan's greeting.

_Yo, Mar!_

_Yeah, so I know you hate the name but try to think of it has an endearment, okay? Before you assume I'm stalking you or something_—Rory winced, remembering her accusation—_Izzy sent me your email address. I had to offer her my cooking services in return, so I hope you appreciate this. Anyway, I just wanted to make sure you were still alive and kicking (hopefully not at Paris) because I know what a bitch midterm season is. I have two on Thursday. I mean, is that even legal? I swear, I should check the charter of rights or something for Jersey. Izzy also mentioned that you'll be in the vicinity of Hartford during Thanksgiving and there's a rumour circulating about a Chilton reunion party at Madeline's. Now, before you make a face—_Rory realized she was grimacing and stuck her tongue out at the monitor—_consider it. Izzy will be there, and Vidya's coming over for the weekend, and you'll get to see everyone again, and hey, maybe Paris will make someone cry! You know it's worth it. Keep an open mind, and bring Lane. Okay well I'm going to bed now. Take it easy,_

_Tris_

_p.s. if you guess the source of the subject line, your drinks are on me!_

Grinning widely, Rory immediately started a reply. It amazed her how much she enjoyed her exchanges with Tristan, considering their relationship during high school. If she was honest with herself, she granted that they had gotten along well enough when at peace. The fact that he had a girlfriend relieved a lot of potential tension between them, while Izzy's childhood anecdotes made it difficult to hold a grudge. He played with Barbie's? Nothing could compete with that kind of ammunition.

They'd talked a few times on the phone until the beginning of the month, when studying had precluded anything but perfunctory communication. Catching up had been interesting, as he told her about North Carolina and she filled him in on the last years at Chilton. Their conversation never lulled, always peppered with current events and random stories. He'd told her how he met Vidya, and she'd mentioned Jess briefly, surprised to find that she still had difficulty talking about him. It was a shock when they realized they'd been in Rome at the same time over the summer.

_Yo, Dris!_

_My apologies for the nickname, but I assure you it's meant affectionately. Really. The Tick wouldn't approve of me drinking underage, so you'll have to determine another reward for my vast knowledge of all forms of television programming. _

_Sorry I haven't called. The work has been piling up steadily, and living with my roommates is becoming..._

_...a call when you're back in Hartford and I'll see if I my mother will release me from her hold long enough to attend. Offering some of those cooking skills in her direction might benefit your cause... _

_Take care, and good luck,_

Rory

Tristan smiled at the emphasis on her name. She was still too easy to tease, though he noted she had matured quite a bit since junior year, not reacting as harshly. He wondered what that ex-boyfriend of hers—Jesse? Jess?—had had to do with it. Rory seemed to have residual feelings for the guy, and though Tristan was fascinated by the character who had succeeded where he'd failed, he wasn't about to press her for details.

His monitor flickered uneasily in the dark room, casting shadows worthy of science fiction status along his postered walls. She was always entertaining, he reflected. It had been a unsettling when he realized how much he missed her calls, but he'd chosen to ignore the concerning possibilities hovering around that emotion and acquired her email address, instead. Izzy hadn't bugged him at all about his request, not even expressing interest in his reasons, which was all the more meaningful. He was sure she had her suspicions, which led him to question his own motives more seriously. Or to think he should question them. Should he? His brow furrowed, considering the situation.

A snore from the other side of the room interrupted his thoughts. Turning in his chair to face the bed, he shook off his self-doubt. How could Rory compete with the beautiful, brilliant girl currently tangled in a knot of covers? She lay on her side, facing the wall, dark curls tumbling over her shoulders. Her bare arms, bronze-coloured and soft to the touch, were tightly hugging the pillow beneath her head and an audible, rhythmic breathing sound rose with her chest. Chuckling, he turned off the monitor and crawled in behind his girlfriend, pulling her back against him and kissing her shoulder softly.

"Mmmfftt?"

"You were snoring."

"Was not," she mumbled sleepily. "Not my fault nose stuffy."

Tristan moved a few strands off the back of her neck aside and nuzzled her nape. "Drooling, too."

"Shhh. Vidya sleep."

Giving her a last squeeze, he let the darkness overtake him, warm and content.


End file.
